


Not What I Wanted

by orphan_account



Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: Communication Failure, Drunken Kissing, F/M, Light Angst, M/M, Mild Language, Vomit, drunk Roger, reader is stupid, reader uses gender neutral pronouns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-10
Updated: 2019-07-12
Packaged: 2020-06-25 22:12:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19754806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: At one of Freddie's wild parties, you find yourself stuck having to help a very inebriated Roger home. Despite your long hidden crush on him, after you share a kiss you find yourself leaving his house, determined to avoid him for the rest of your life. Can Roger's band mates help the two of you repair your relationship and move on into the future?[also known as example 1 of 'I can't summarise']





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hey, welcome to my first ever fic (ever ever ever). I hope you like it!

The rhythm of the bass pounded through your skull as you snaked your way across the room, making sure to stay away from the centre where there was a mass of people writhing to the music. You didn’t want to be sucked into their revel, searching instead for a friendly face, something familiar to latch onto. As you pushed through the door, managing to squeeze your way into the hall outside, you almost collided with Brian. He seemed to have had the same idea as you–namely, to get out of the sweaty pit in Freddie’s living room.

“Brian! Thank god, I’ve been looking for someone I know,” you exclaimed.

He looked down at you, smiling. There was a half drunk beer in his hand.

“Your luck must be against you tonight if I'm the person you found.”

Suddenly, you heard a roar from the crowd in the living room as the song changed into the latest number one. You grimaced, recognising the song and hating it for how disgustingly overplayed it was. The dancers, however, didn’t seem to care.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Brian,” you said, once the noise had died down slightly, “We’re friends, after all.”

You and Brian had met through his girlfriend, Chrissie, who you’d met when you both worked at the same coffee shop as you tried desperately to make some money during university. Brian had then introduced you to his band, who were just starting up at the time, and you’d all got on very well. You’d become such good friends that you frequently received invitations to Freddie’s parties, which he seemed to have very often. This was the first you’d been to in a while, and it was even wilder than you remembered.

“Freddie’s really pulled out all the stops tonight, hasn’t he?” you continued.

“As always,” Brian sighed, “Sometimes I’m worried he’ll burn himself out from all this.”

“He’ll be alright,” you said, “You know Fred, he always bounces back.”

Brian shrugged, “Yeah, I guess so.”

“Want to get another drink?” you asked, “I’ve only had two the whole time I’ve been here; I could really do with another one.”

“Only one?” Brian said, “When Freddie spent so much on drinks?”

You laughed, “He’d be so disappointed. But I just don’t like drinking on my own, or with people I don’t really know.”

“Well, you’ve found me now,” replied Brian, “I could do with another beer. This one’s disgusting.”

Before either of you had a chance to move, someone barged past him from where he was standing in the doorway, knocking him into the wall and making him spill the rest of his beer all over his jacket. Brian grimaced and rubbed his head while you turned to face the person who’d knocked into him. Your eyes widened as you realised it was Roger. After having stumbled into Brian, it was clear that the force had knocked him down as he was on his hands and knees on the carpeted floor.

“Roger?” you knelt down next to him.

He turned his head to look at you, smiling a lazy sort of half smile. You doubted if he could recognise you in his state. You weren’t even sure how much his brain was processing of his surroundings as he seemed completely unaware of what was going on around him.

“Roger?” Are you alright?” You repeated your question, unsure if it was a waste of time. He didn’t seem to be listening.

Brian knelt down on Roger’s other side. He moved his nose next to Roger’s mouth and took a deep sniff, wincing.

“Jesus.”

“He’s been drinking?” you asked, feeling a little silly but not really knowing what else to do. It was, after all, very obvious.

“Of course,” Brian confirmed, “A lot, from what I can smell. A hell of a lot.”

Suddenly, Roger spasmed, jerking forward and flopping next to Brian’s feet as something spewed from his mouth...all over Brian’s shoes.

“Fuck!” Brian cursed. He dropped Roger’s arm and fell back, turning away from the vomit. It was too late though–the chunky liquid was all over his shoes.

“Oh hell,” you muttered, “What the fuck are we going to do?”

Brian removed his beer stained jacket and dabbed round Roger’s face with it. His face was a picture, the disgust at owning a jacket now covered in beer and vomit evident. Once he was done, he balled up the jacket and tucked it under a side table behind him.

“I'll come back for it later," Brian explained, "Come on. Let’s get him up.”

Between the two of you, you managed to get Roger standing, his weight supported almost entirely by you both and none by himself, his head lolling forward onto his chest. You and Brian began to pick your way through Freddie’s house, making sure to stay away from the busiest rooms. Luckily, the little hall where you’d been talking wasn’t too far from the entrance, and there was only one dangerous incident when Brian, pausing to readjust his grip, had lost his hold on Roger who’d almost lost an eye against the corner of an end table.

Finally, you made it outside. The cool evening air was a blessing after the heavy atmosphere of Freddie’s house. Your car wasn’t far from the house, as you’d arrived especially early to get good parking, so the two (three?) of you stumbled to it. Once you were there, you fished your keys out of your bag and managed to maneuver Roger into the backseat. This wasn't easy, and could really have been called wrestling as Roger seemed unwilling to let go of either of you. Five minutes of grappling eventually resulted in Roger actually sitting upright in the back, although if it wasn't for his seatbelt you were pretty sure he would have slumped forwards. Out of breath, you leant against the cold metal of the car. Brian walked around the side. He seemed to be preparing to get into the passenger seat.

“Brian!” you practically shrieked, “Stop! Don’t you dare get into my car like that.”

He furrowed his brow in confusion, “Like what?”

“You’re covered in vomit, Brian. Not just your shoes, but your trousers too. And your shirt has beer on it. If I let you into my car, it will never stop smelling. Ever. And I like my car.”

“What if I take my shoes and trousers off?” he suggested.

“Great idea Brian! Why don’t I drive one friend who’s zonked out of his mind and one who’s half naked and smells of vomit to the home of the drunk one,” you said.

Brian quirked a half smile, “Is that a yes or…”

“No it’s not a yes, Brian!” you said, “I’ve never had to do that yet and I don’t plan to start now. I haven’t fallen that far yet.”

“Alright,” he replied, “I’ll try and find my car then. It’s maybe ten minutes from here. I’ll meet you at Roger’s.”

“Ten minutes from here? Jesus, Brian, this is why you don’t arrive late: you don’t have to settle for shit parking. Look, there’s no point in you coming to Roger’s as well; I’ll be fine on my own.”

“I’m not ditching you to look after Roger when he’s in this state–what sort of friend would that make me?”

“Brian.” You gave him that look you reserved for people when they were being especially thick, “I. Will. Be. Fine.”

He sighed, “Are you sure?”

“Yes, Brian, I’m sure,” your eyes lit up as you had an idea, “Why don’t you find that girl he brought? Offer her a lift home or something?”

Brian frowned. Clearly he wasn’t happy about this job. You were just glad you weren’t the one covered in beer and vomit, or you might have had to deal with Roger’s date of the night. You hated all the ones you’d been unlucky enough to meet–they were all annoying and you had nothing in common with them whatsoever.

“Please, Brian?” you smiled in what you hoped was a winning manner, “I’m sure Roger would really appreciate it.”

He rolled his eyes, but then said, “Fine.”

You climbed into your car, smiling at him as you did so, and turned your keys in the ignition.

“Bye, Bri,” you said, “See you around.”

As you drove away, you glanced in the rearview mirror. Brian cut a strange figure standing alone on the pavement, one foot in the gutter. In the dark, the vomit and beer on his trousers was almost invisible.

Almost.

In the backseat, Roger gave a snort. You glanced back and saw that he had fallen asleep, mouth open. You winced as you saw that while you may have saved your car from Roger’s vomit, you certainly hadn’t saved it from his drool.

/

You exhaled heavily as you finally finished rolling Roger onto his bed–it had been quite the effort heaving him onto it as he was about as responsive as a sack of potatoes and felt about twice as heavy. You half regretted refusing Brian’s offer of help, before thinking about how the stench of vomit would have lingered in your car for weeks and realising you had made the right decision in the end. You were also a little doubtful about how much help Brian’s spindly arms would have been.

Walking over to the window, you pulled the curtains closed before settling yourself in the chair next to Roger’s wardrobe and snuggling into a blanket you’d taken from the end of his bed. It was a warm night, so you doubted that he’d want it for himself. Instead, you drew it around you, tucking it under your chin and (with a guilty sort of pleasure), breathing in the scent of Roger that it carried.

You weren’t sure when your feelings for Roger had begun to develop. All you knew was that one day they’d hit you right in the face, very much like a brick or a big rock. You’d both been at Brian’s house, and Roger had been dismayed to find that there was no milk in the fridge when he’d gone to make a cup of tea. He’d asked you to come with it to the closest shop, as he wasn’t sure of the way and so you’d both gone, wrapped up in coats and scarves to protect yourself from the biting November winds. You’d walked the ten minutes to the shop in an awkward half silence–it was the first time you’d been alone together and neither of you knew each other that well.

Once you’d arrived at the shop, however, the atmosphere had completely changed. You’d both pranced round the shop as Roger tried to convince you to buy an assortment of snacks that you didn’t need.

“We came for milk, Roger, not six kinds of biscuits!”

“Well, we need some to dunk in the tea. It’s not a proper cuppa if there’s no biscuits.”

Finally, after you’d put back the armful of food Roger had collected (except for a packet of HobNobs–he was right about needing to dunk biscuits, after all), you bought the milk and walked back to Brian’s house. As you stood on the doorstep, waiting for someone to answer the door, Roger had put his arm around you.

"That was a lot of fun, Y/N," he'd said, "Even if you wouldn't let me buy that jumbo pack of custard creams."

"What on earth would Brian do with a jumbo pack of custard creams?" you'd said.

Roger had grinned at you, "I could have taken the extras home. I love custard creams."

"You live alone, Roger. How long would it have taken you to eat a hundred custard creams?"

"Oh, you know," he'd shrugged, "Couple of days?"

"Without throwing up? Sure."

He'd laughed at your disbelief, and as you'd looked at him you'd felt a quiver in your stomach, a shiver skimming up your spine. Your heart juddered as you realised–you were in love with Roger Taylor.

Now, as you looked across his room to him from where you were sitting, you felt the familiar tug in your chest, coupled with a tinge of sadness. This was Roger, who had someone new every week–sometimes every night. You didn’t stand a chance. But still...there was a little bud of hope in your chest that wouldn't go away, no matter how much you tried to prune it. You leaned back in your chair, unsure why you were staying–wouldn’t it make much more sense to go? After all, it wasn’t like Roger needed you. You’d set out a glass of water next to his bed, along with a couple of pills, for when he woke up. Anything else he could get himself. Still…

You felt your eyes close.

When they jerked open again, you weren’t sure for a moment where you were. Your back and your legs ached from your uncomfortable position, and your eyelids felt like they were glued down. You took in a deep breath as you glanced round, getting your bearings and remembering what the hell you were doing in Roger’s bedroom.

When you looked at the bed, Roger was looking back at you. The shock of seeing his bright blue eyes wide in the dark almost made you fall out of your chair.

“Y/N?” Roger’s voice was groggy.

“How are you feeling?” you asked.

He narrowed his eyes, squinting at you, “Head hurts.”

“Yeah. Figures.” For some reason, you felt at a loss for words. It was strange–normally you and Roger were joking around and all of a sudden you didn’t know what to do, or what to say. Maybe it was because you were together, in his room, in the dark.

You were just glad you weren’t in his bed. You wouldn’t have had the slightest clue what to do if that’s where you were.

Right at that moment, Roger patted the space next to him, signalling that you should lie down next to him. Great. You hesitated, but when he did it again you stood up, folding the blanket and leaving it on the chair where you’d been sitting. You moved to his bed.

“So,” Roger groaned, “how did we get here?”

You explained, pausing when he laughed as you told him how he’d thrown up on Brian.

“I bet he looked fucking hilarious,” he snorted.

“It was so gross, Roger,” you replied, “What on earth had you been eating? It was luminous orange and chunky.”

“I wish I could remember any of it,” he said, “but my head is fucking killing me. Was he wearing his red jacket? Please tell me he was wearing his red jacket.”

“He was,” you confirmed, “Why?”

“Fucking hate that jacket,” he said, clutching his head as he spoke. You reached across his body to the glass of water you’d placed there earlier and handed it to him as well as the pills. 

He smiled at you in gratefulness as he drank gingerly.

You leant back, leaning against the headboard of his bed as he drank, allowing yourself to take in his appearance. His cheeks were flushed and his blond hair a nest sticking out of his head, messy from both the party and his sleep.

“Why did you stay, Y/N?” Roger croaked.

You paused, unwilling to say ‘because I am in love with you and wanted to make sure you were alright’.

“I, uh, I stayed because...because I didn’t think you should be alone when you’re like this.”

“Thanks,” he replied sarcastically, raising an eyebrow.

You bit your lip, feeling like you’d said the wrong thing, like you’d offended him. Then he grinned.

“I’m only joking,” he smiled, “It was really nice of you to stay. You didn’t have to do that.”

“I sort of did,” you replied.

“You did?”

“Yeah,” you said, shrugging, “We’re...friends. And friends should look out for each other.”

All of a sudden, Roger leaned forwards, staring at you intently. You did your best to control all your breathing, trying to hide your nerves at how close his face was to yours.

“We’re friends, aren’t we, Y/N?” he asked, voice husky, “Good friends, right?”

“Yeah,” you responded, swallowing, “Yeah. We’re friends.”

He leant in even more. This close, you could see the pores in his skin, the light stubble on his cheeks. You could probably count his eyelashes if you wanted.

“What if,” he continued, after pausing for a moment, “What if I didn’t want to be friends with you?”

All of a sudden, everything around you seemed to quieten. Deaden, even. Your breathing slowed. You felt as if your heart was just going to stop. All you could focus on were those words. _He didn't want to be friends with you_.

Roger leaned even closer. There was now no more than a millimetre between the tips of your noses.

“What if I wanted to be something more?”

You said nothing, staring at him in half hope and half confusion.

All of a sudden, his lips were on yours, pushing against them, pressing you back into the bed. His hands slid up your arms, gripping your shoulders tightly as he thrust his tongue into your mouth.

It was funny; this was what you had been dreaming about for months. His hands on your body. His mouth on yours. Kissing him. _Kissing Roger Taylor_. But now the moment was here, and all you could focus on was the stale scent of sweat emitting from him, the heavy taste of too many beers in his mouth. With every swipe of his tongue, you were reminded of the fact that only a few hours ago something chunky and orange had spewed out of his mouth. Was it just your imagination, or could you taste the traces of the vomit? His tongue, too, did not feel like the soft velvet you’d imagined. Instead, all you could think about was a slug sliding across your mouth.

You felt a little sick.

“Roger,” you said, your words muffled against his mouth, “Roger, stop.”

This wasn’t what you wanted.

You pushed against him. He showed no signs of having heard you, or maybe he couldn’t understand what you’d said, your words stifled by the movement of his mouth. You repeated yourself and pushed against him again, more insistently this time.

He fell back onto his duvet and opened his eyes, staring up at you. You could do nothing but stare back.

“Y/N?”

You scuttled backwards, swinging your legs over the side of his bed so you were sitting with your back to him.

“Y/N, are you OK?”

You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, trying to scrape away the memory of that awful kiss in a way that Roger couldn’t see.

“I’m fine, Roger. I just–that...that wasn’t–that wasn’t what I wanted.”

You grimaced, aware of how tactless you were being but unsure of how else to put it. 

“Wasn’t what you–oh hell. Oh fuck. Y/N, I–I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I wasn’t–I didn’t–I didn’t think. About what you...I’m really sorry. I’m really, really fucking sorry.”

Staring at your feet, you didn’t reply. How were you supposed to move on from that?

Roger was silent too. You both were still, looking at anything except each other.

Then you stood up, “I’ll see you around, I guess.”

You looked back at Roger. He was staring at you with a confused expression fixed to his face.

“Around?” he asked

“I have to go. I can’t stay here. Not after…,” you paused, “Besides, you don’t want me hanging around, do you?”

“...I suppose not.”

You couldn’t tell him that you didn’t want to leave. But you didn’t want to have to explain why, and why you’d reacted the way you had at his kiss. You didn’t want to have to explain to him that, while you wanted to stay with him, you didn’t want what he had just given you. You didn’t want drunken kisses and fumbling in the dark. You wanted him, yes, but that wasn’t what he wanted. He didn’t want you. Not forever, anyway. He’d want you for as long as it took him to come and then you’d never be able to look him in the eyes ever again.

So you stood up and walked over to the chair where you’d been sleeping peacefully only a few minutes before. You slipped on your shoes and picked up your bag.

“Bye, then,” you said lamely, walking over to the door.

“Y/N, I–” Roger broke off whatever he was going to say.

You looked back at him. The light from the lamp behind him made him a silhouette in the darkness. You could only just make out his face. There was a strange expression shining in his eyes. Then he blinked, and it was gone.

“Yeah?” you whispered.

“Goodbye.”

You stood in the doorway for a moment.

“Goodbye, Roger,” you said.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's two week after Freddie's party, and you've been invited to Brian's house. A conference in a toilet results in the feeling that maybe, just maybe there's a future between you and Roger...

The London streets were crowded as you forced your way through the throngs of people. It had been a couple of weeks since Freddie’s party, and yesterday Brian had called you to invite you to his house for an evening with friends. You’d debated going, knowing that Roger would be there and not wanting to face him so soon after he’d kissed you–or ever again. But Brian had sounded so cheerful on the phone, and had said he had something to announce, so of course you had to agree to go. Though you had to admit that Brian’s promise of dinner had been a major factor in your acceptance.

Brian’s house was only a little way away from yours, and as it was a sunny day you’d decided to walk there. Unfortunately, due to the beautiful weather and the fact that it was a Saturday, the streets were full of other people on their way out too, so what was normally a quiet walk had turned into what felt like a very mediocre fight as you tried to squeeze through the crowds.

Finally, you made it to Brian’s house, a quiet little place tucked away on a tree-lined street. You rang the bell and barely had to wait before it was answered by Brian.

“Y/N! I’ve been waiting for you!”

Without even a friendly ‘ _hello_ ’, he dragged you into a tiny bathroom off the hall which was made up of a toilet, a tiny sink and not much floor space, and told you to wait there. A few moments later he returned with John and Freddie in tow. Freddie immediately pushed past you to the toilet, lowered the lid and sat down.

“Darling, you’re late,” he said.

“And you’re not, Fred,” you said, after greeting John, “I didn’t know that was possible.”

“Of course I’m not late, darling. Not today, anyway. You see we have something very important to discuss with you.”

“You do?” you asked.

“It’s Roger,” said John.

“Is he here?” you said, “Did you ditch him in Brian’s living room to come and talk to me in this tiny bathroom?”

“He’s not here yet,” said Brian, “I may have given him the wrong time so we would have time to talk to you about him.”

“About him? What’s he done?” you asked. You were beginning to feel more than a little nervous about where this conversation was heading.

“It’s not what he’s done, my dear,” replied Freddie, “It’s what _you’ve_ done.”

“Me? I haven’t done anything.”

“But you have, Y/N,” countered Brian, “You’ve done something.”

You were absolutely baffled. This was not what you’d been expecting, “I have?”

“What happened at his house, Y/N?” Brian continued, as if he hadn’t heard you, “We know something happened. Roger came into the studio the next day in a right state. He’s not been playing well, he’s not been eating well and it’s something to do with you. He looks awful anytime someone mentions your name. We’ve all been avoiding talking about you so as not to upset him.”

You weren’t sure how you were supposed to feel about this, but you doubted that the correct emotional response was anger. So it was your fault Roger was behaving like a spoilt kid? Just because you’d rejected him? You couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed in his reaction–you’d always thought he was better than this. You’d never seen him as an especially sulky person.

Freddie leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, “The fact is, Y/N, we have an album to finish and we can’t do it properly until Roger cheers up. He can’t play the drums even half as well when he’s disconsolate like this.”

You frowned, “So you’re worried about your album? Not Roger?”

“Of course we’re worried about Roger,” said Freddie, “but you know him. Always moping around after this person or another. He’ll get over it eventually, but I’d really rather if he sorted himself out quickly. It’s been two weeks already, and normally he’d have found someone new to chase by now.”

Despite Freddie’s seemingly uncaring words, you could tell by his expression that he really was worried about Roger.

“Y/N,” began Brian, “what happened between you and Roger?”

For a moment, you said nothing. Then–

“He kissed me.”

Freddie shrieked in a way that could only be described as bat-like and fell off the toilet.

John just looked puzzled.

“So why is he so upset? I thought that’s what you wanted. Him to kiss you,” he said.

“ _John_ ,” you hissed, as Brian and Freddie’s heads whipped around to stare at him. John looked horrified.

“Oh no,” he whispered, “Y/N, I’m sorry.”

Freddie let out another shriek. If it was possible, it was even louder and shriller than the last one.

“You want Roger to kiss you?” Brian asked incredulously, “ _Our_ Roger? You like _our Roger_?”

“I’m just shocked,” said Freddie, once he’d calmed down a little, “that you would tell John and not me. Or Brian.”

“I didn’t tell you because I knew you would react like this,” you said, “And because I knew you would try to set me up with him or something and it would never work and I would be embarrassed forever.”

“She didn’t mean to tell me anyway, Fred,” said John, “It was an accident. One involving an excessive amount of shots and a lot of dancing.”

“Why didn’t you think it would work out between you and Rog, Y/N?” asked Brian.

“You know him, Brian, come on,” you said, “How he brings one person to a party and ends up going home with somebody else, somebody different. How he dates someone for a month and then they split up. That’s exactly what would happen, but it would be so much worse because it would ruin all my friendships with you all.”

“You’re right, Y/N, I _do_ know him,” said Brian, “and maybe you don’t. Not as well as you think you do, anyway. Why don’t you ask him why he does all that? Why he can’t seem to stick with one person?”

“Ask him? No way. I can never speak to him again. It’d be...horrible.”

Suddenly, the doorbell rang.

“That’ll be Roger,” said Brian, “You should all head to the sitting room. I’ll let him in.”

He left the room, followed by Freddie. John hesitated for a moment, his hand on your arm.

“I really think you should talk to him,” he said, “I don’t think you’ll regret it.”

He left the room. Sighing, you followed him.

/

There were about thirty people in Brian’s living room, all lounging on various pieces of furniture, some of which had clearly been dragged in from other rooms so there would be a space for everyone to sit. As you walked in, Freddie signalled for you to come and sit with him, so you squeezed into the armchair he was lounging in. Just as you settled down, Brian walked in closely followed by Roger. His eyes swept the room, falling almost immediately on you. They rested on your face for a moment as you stared coolly back at him, desperately trying not to look away, before he dropped his gaze and moved to sit next to John’s wife Veronica.

Brian went to the front of the room and stood next to the fireplace where he was joined by Chrissie. He coughed loudly, and the chatter in the room died down. Everyone turned to look at him.

“Hi everyone,” he said, “it was really nice of you all to come round. You may have guessed that we have something to say. Some of you may already know what that something is.”

Brian turned to murmur something in Chrissie’s ear. She nodded, taking a small step forward and beamed.

“Brian and I are getting married!”

The room exploded. Some people began clapping. More let out whoops and cheers of congratulations. You heard someone say ‘well, about time’ as you joined the group of people moving to the front of the room to give Brian and Chrissie congratulatory hugs.

“Congratulations, Chrissie!” you said, grinning at her.

“Thank you so much, Y/N,” she replied, “I’m so happy! I want you to be a bridesmaid, of course.”

“Me?”

“Of course, Y/N. You’re one of my closest friends,” Chrissie managed to say before she was swept up in a hug from someone you didn’t know.

You stood there for a second, before you felt a tap on your shoulder and turned to see Brian behind you.

“You look absolutely flabbergasted, Y/N,” he laughed.

“I am,” you said, looking up at him, “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me.”

“Well, now you know how I felt when I found out you didn’t tell me about–” here he broke off, having noticed Roger staring at you both, “you-know-what.”

“Getting engaged and having a crush are two very different things, Brian.”

He rolled his eyes, “Potato, potahto.”

“Now, I seem to remember you saying something to me over the phone about dinner,” you continued.

“You remember correctly,” Brian agreed. Turning back to the rest of the guests, many of whom were now just standing around uncomfortably, unsure of what to do now the congratulations were over, he raised his voice, “Alright everyone, if you’d like to make your way outside, Chrissie and I have prepared some food for everyone.”

He turned back to you, “It’s just cold food really. Salad, some cold meats and stuff. Don’t get your hopes up too much.”

You smiled up at him, “Too late Brian. But to be honest, any food makes me excited. Let’s go.”

Brian led you and the other guests out of the house and into the back garden–your favourite part of his whole house. The location suggested that the house would have no garden, or at the very least it would be a poky sort of area with a few very scraggly shrubs. Instead, there was an expansive lawn, which sloped down slightly from the house. On either side where two long beds of flowers which Brian and Chrissie took great pride in, especially during the spring and summer.

You stepped out of the back door onto the patio that Brian had spent all of last summer building. Smiling, you remembered the long days you’d spent helping him with Chrissie and John. Freddie and Roger would sit by and watch you all work, although very occasionally Roger could be convinced to pitch in. Not that he was ever very much help.

Thinking of Roger made your smile fade. You knew you had to talk to him–after all, he was one of your best friends. The knot of nerves in your stomach was trying to persuade you otherwise, however.

You found a seat at the long table on the patio, between John and someone you didn’t recognise–maybe one of Chrissie’s friends from work. All the food was covered with mesh domes, and you reached out to uncover the ones closest to you, which revealed sausage rolls and potato salad.

“So, Y/N,” said John, “when are you going to speak to...him?”

“Give me a break, John,” you said, “I’ll talk to him. Just not yet.”

“Make sure you do,” he replied meaningfully, “I think it would do you some good.”

You raised your eyebrows at him but said nothing and began to eat.

Brian had really been putting his culinary skills down when he’d told you not to get your hopes up for the food; it really was delicious. You had second (and third) helpings of almost everything, having to settle for smaller portions to accommodate for this. As the evening progressed the air grew a little cooler, although it was still warm, and the sun began setting slowly. Once all the food was gone, Brian hurried to the kitchen and brought back a huge cake, which lasted no longer than ten minutes. You knew for sure that neither Brian nor Chrissie had had anything to do with the cake–while they were both good cooks, their baking skills were practically non existent and they often visited their local bakery instead of settling for the lumpy cake and tasteless biscuits they always ended up producing.

Once everyone had finished eating, Brian went back inside and came back lugging a record player and a big pile of records. He put one on and people leant back, relaxing and talking quietly with their neighbours. Some stood up and began dancing near the record player.

A few people, including Chrissie and John, walked out onto the lawn where there was a net set up for badminton. Some others stood nearby, tossing a frisbee between themselves. Their laughter filled the air.

It was quite funny, when you thought about it. Two weeks ago you’d been at Freddie’s party which had been loud and intense, and now here you were at Brian’s, sitting on the patio and sipping a glass of wine quietly. Eyes closed, you felt nothing but peaceful.

You felt someone sit down next to you in the space John had been occupying earlier. You kept your eyes closed, wanting to remain in the little bubble of quiet you’d made yourself for just a little while longer.

“Y/N?”

Your body stilled at the sound of that voice. It was Roger. 

_Fuck._

You opened your eyes and turned them to look at him. His hands were in his lap, fingers twisted together.

“We really need to talk,” he said.

Well, at least you hadn’t had to initiate this conversation.

You stood up, “Want to go inside?”

He nodded, and you followed him in. Just before you entered the house, you glanced behind you to the patio. Freddie was giving you a thumbs-up.

Roger led you back into the living room, and sat down on the sofa. You joined him, sitting right at the other end rather than next to him like you would have done in the past. You saw him bite his lip at that.

“So…” you began.

He held up a hand, cutting you off although you weren’t sure what you were going to say anyway, “Please, Y/N, let me go first. I have to say...what it is I need to say. I have to apologise again. No, please don’t interrupt. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I should have thought about what I was doing.”

“You were so drunk, Rog,” you said, “I doubt you knew what you were doing.”

“No, Y/N, you’re wrong,” he said, “I knew exactly what I was doing. I’ve wanted to do it for so long. I was planning it for so long. The alcohol, well, it just gave me the confidence to do it.”

“You–you what?”

He licked his lips nervously, then continued, “I’ve wanted to kiss you for a long time. I don’t really know since when. Maybe since the first time we met.”

You couldn’t help but smile as you remembered the first time you’d met Roger. It’d been at this house, actually, at Chrissie’s birthday party. You’d kept getting his name wrong.

“The fact is, Y/N, I love you. I really, really, really love you. I love the way you hold yourself, the way you dress, the way you dance, the way you look when you listen to someone, as if what they’re saying is the most important thing in the world. I love the way you smile off into the distance when you don’t think anyone’s watching, like you’re off in your own little world. I love the way you make whoever you’re talking to feel like they’re the centre of the universe.

“Roger, I–”

“Please, Y/N,” he said, almost desperately, “I’ve made it this far. I know you don’t love me. But I had to tell you, because I thought if you knew the reasoning behind why I kissed you then maybe you’d forgive me. Maybe then things can go back to the way they were.”

“You love me?” you whispered.

“So, so much.”

All of a sudden, you remembered what Brian had told you to ask.

“Roger,” you said, “if you love me so much–why do you date all those other people?”

He sighed heavily, “There’s no way to put this that doesn’t make me sound like a right arse. I dated them...because I couldn’t have you. I chose people who weren’t anything like you because I thought it would help me. I thought I could maybe stop loving you. But they never lasted, because I didn’t feel anything real for them. I’d feel bad about what I was doing, and end it. Then I’d start thinking about you again, and ask somebody else out to try and forget you. It was a terrible cycle, but I couldn’t get out of it. I guess it shows how hopeless I felt, how I always knew that you don’t feel the same way about me.”

“You’re wrong.”

“I’m wrong?” Roger looked confused.

“About…” you took a deep breath, “About me not being in love with you. You’re wrong. I am in love with you. I didn’t realise you were too.”

“But you said, when I kissed you, that it wasn’t what you wanted?” Roger was still confused. You couldn’t blame him.

“I didn’t want it. Not to be kissed by you–I did want that. A lot. I...I do want that. But that’s not how I wanted it to be, the first time we kissed. I didn’t want it to be some drunken thing. A quick fuck. I...just wanted it to be more.”

“You what?”

“I love you too, Roger,” you said.

He scooted down the sofa, a look of incredulous wonder and hope on his face.

“You...love me?” he asked.

You reached out and took his hand, “Yes.”

“I’ve been out of my fucking mind, Y/N, thinking you hated me. Knowing that I forced myself onto you, and that you didn’t want it. And now you’re telling me that you loved me all along?”

Just like at his house two weeks ago, his face was getting closer and closer to yours. The difference this time, however, was that you didn’t mind it. In fact, you rather liked it.

“That’s exactly what I’m telling you, Roger,” you replied.

He ran his tongue across his lower lip. You followed its path with your eyes. All you could think about was how much you wanted to lick your way across that lip yourself.

“Then…” he murmured, “will you let me kiss you?”

The look you’d seen in his eyes just before you’d left his house had returned, but this time you recognised it for what it was–hope. Now, however, it was paired with nervousness, something you recognised easily in he tremble around his lips and the tension in his shoulders.

“I would gladly let you kiss me, Roger Taylor,” you whispered.

He leant in.

The feeling of his lips against yours was a welcome pressure, pushing you back a little into the sofa arm you’d been leaning against. His mouth was warm and soft. It tasted faintly of the cake you’d all been eating earlier. Your eyes closed as you slid your arms up his body and into his hair, tangling your fingers into the blond locks, winding the strands around them. Roger let out a hum of approval, and at that you opened your mouth slightly, inviting the entrance of his tongue. The flick of his tongue encouraged a little moan out of you, and at the sound Roger pulled away, sitting back on his haunches.

“Roger?” you murmured, “What is it? Did I do something wrong?”

He smiled softly at you, “No, love, that was...fantastic.”

“So why’d you stop?” you asked, raising your eyebrows nervously.

“Because that’s not what you really want either, is it, Y/N? Not some quick make out session on a sofa in a house that isn’t yours or mine.”

“It was a kiss, Roger, not a full on make out session.”

“It wasn’t what you wanted,” he snapped.

“It was wonderful,” you blurted out.

He paused, “Wonderful?”

“It was like magic, Roger. Proper fucking magic. It was better than I could ever have imagined. It’s the kiss I didn’t know I needed. Because it was you. Just you. Not the alcohol talking. You. And that’s what I wanted.”

 _Not the sluglike tongue of two weeks ago_ , you added in your head.

He said nothing, only stared at you.

“I want something real. And that was real, because you were feeling properly. Not hiding behind a head of beer or whatever it was you'd been drinking, relying on it for confidence. I don’t want something that’ll end after one night. But if you really love me, the same way I love you, then I don’t think it will. I think it could last forever.”

“I think it could too, Y/N. I know I want it to.” A smile was creeping across Roger’s face.

Suddenly he stood up, stretching his hand out to you. You got to your feet too, and took his hand in yours. Gently, almost delicately, he pressed a kiss to your cheek.

“Let’s go back outside,” Roger said, “I think we have some news of our own to share.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked this short little fic!! I really enjoyed writing it (except for the confession at the end, which is literally the most important bit. I thought it was really hard and I'm still not sure if I like the way it came out. But I digress...). Let me know what you thought (hopefully good things)! But who knows??


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